Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Neglected Penny Post
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: Victorian London. During the four years in which I have traversed the kingdom alongside my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have discovered him to be a man of aloof manner, incapable of any deep affection or real human attachment. That is, until I witnessed the near catastrophe brought about by his neglect of a message sent by a seemingly-insignificant young woman in Camden Town.
1. Chapter 1

_London, 1885_

 _For the four years in which I have traversed the most perilous and interesting portions of the kingdom alongside my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have discovered him to be a man of aloof manner and cool sensibility, incapable of any deep affection or real human attachment. That is, until I witnessed the near catastrophe brought about by his neglect of a message sent by a seemingly-insignificant young woman living in Camden Town._

 _This case, unlike any of its predecessors, proved critical and I daresay life-altering for the both of us. It took us to the hearthsides of old friend, across the thresholds of the most blackhearted criminals imaginable—and into territories of the heart that Sherlock Holmes had doubtlessly never explored._

 _Thus, it is with as truthful a pen as I can manage that I set this case down before you—the case which changed everything for the famous detective and myself: The Adventure of the Neglected Penny Post._

SSSS

I have put on my black coat and polished shoes before sitting down this morning to make a final perusal of this vital document, in an effort to save time, before I depart 221B Baker Street, nevermore to return as a permanent lodger. The boxes and trunks looming in the corner behind me are reminder enough that an age of particularly singular adventure has come to an end. I should never have suspected, just a month ago, that my handful of years serving as the colleague and chronicler to the world's most brilliant detective would endure such a swift and sudden change. And yet, here we are, and I needs must accustom myself to this great shift in course.

It is this case—the catalyst of this swift and sudden change that now sits before me on my desk. This case, without which, I am positively certain, the lives of myself and my friend, Sherlock Holmes, would be vastly and unrecognizably different. It has now been recorded with all the fullness of which I am capable, and for the simple reason that it is so vital to the upcoming turn of events in my own realm of existence, I have abandoned the "romanticism" of which Holmes so often accuses me, and have endeavored to recount, in as precise detail as possible, every moment from the beginning to the present. I confess, however, that my efforts at precision shall expose many matters dangerously close to the heart and the nerve, and reveal things about the soul of my friend that hitherto I would have declared flatly impossible. And thus, quite possibly, this case may never greet the eyes of anyone but myself for many years to come.

J.H. Watson, M.D.

Sherlock Holmes

And the Adventure of the Neglected Penny Post

CHAPTER ONE

I sat down heavily in my chair and flapped the _Times_ open to the third page, clearing my throat as I did. I halfway wondered if this would rattle my friend out of his deep, silent musings, but it didn't seem to have any effect. I glanced over the right hand page at him, my mouth tightening.

He had covered the breakfast table in our drawing room at 221B with various clippings and notes, and he had been standing there in a shaft of morning light, before his collage, for at least three hours, motionless as an oak in midwinter, one arm across his chest, the other raised so his fingers draped over his lips. He wore his dark blue smoking jacket over his shirt and trousers, and he had combed his hair and shaved, but I'd seen him take no breakfast. I had dressed, eaten, taken a walk, visited my bank and returned, and in all that time, the most progress I'd observed from him is that he had gotten up from his own chair near the fireplace and taken about six steps across the room.

Something caught my eye, and I frowned.

"Holmes?" I called, sitting up straighter and picking up a letter off the side table.

"Hm?" he grunted deeply.

"Looks like something came while I was away," I remarked, turning the envelope over in my hand. "It's a small thing—woman's handwriting. She's used blue ink—"

Sherlock sighed heavily and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, her mother doubtlessly wants me to come round for tea. Again," he muttered. "I've no time for that nonsense, especially right now."

"Who is she?" I wanted to know.

"No one of significance," Sherlock muttered. "Not today, anyhow."

I frowned harder down at the handwriting.

"She hasn't included a return address. And our address here seems to have been written very quickly." I looked up and studied him. "Are you sure it isn't important?"

"I know exactly who it is, despite the lack of address, and I've not consulted her concerning this case, so I don't see how it _could_ be important," he replied, a bite to his tone as he folded his arms across his chest and continued to bore his gaze into the collage.

"You've consulted this person on other cases?" I asked, slapping my paper down onto my lap and leaning forward in interest. "Who is she?"

"If the need ever arises, which I doubt it shall," Sherlock ground out. "I shall introduce you."

I gazed at his lean, dark form a moment longer, then bit back my impatience, sat back and kept reading. I knew better than to disturb him at the moment. He would tell me something when he had something to tell.

Half an hour later, the clock above the dusty mantel struck eleven. The groan of the gears and the soft _ding-ding_ resounded through the quiet.

And as if on cue, Sherlock spun on his heel, faced me, and clapped his hands together.

"So, now that you're here, I may tell you that I have it, Watson," he declared, his gray eyes blazing. I tossed my paper down.

"I _have_ been here, you know," I reminded him. "For quite a while, now."

"During which time, and your earlier absence, I put to rest four other cases," he nodded pointedly toward me.

"You did?" I sat up.

Sherlock huffed.

"Would you like to hear what I have deduced—"

" _Yes_. What is it?"

"You recall the words to the ritual?" he asked, pacing toward me.

"Yes, we've memorized it by now," I answered. "'Whose was it?' 'His who is gone.' 'Who shall have it?' 'He who will come.'"

"'What was the month?' 'The sixth from the first,'" Sherlock went on feverishly. "'Where was the sun?' 'Over the oak.'"

"'Where was the shadow?' 'Under the elm,'" I continued. "'How was it stepped?' 'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two—'"

Sherlock whirled and faced me directly, his tone resonant and purposeful, his eyes pinning me where I sat.

"…west by one and by one, and so under.'" He leaned toward me. "Don't you see, Watson? It is a _measurement_. Something is _buried_ out there."

"Buried!" I cried. "But—what could be _buried_ out there for so long?"

Sherlock tipped his head to the side, his mouth frowning.

"If I had to make an excellent guess, according to the last line: 'What shall we give for it?' 'All that is ours.' 'Why should we give it?' 'For the sake of the trust', I would say something vital to the monarchy."

I stood up out of my chair like a lightning bolt.

"The monarchy—!"

"Guessing by the age of the ritual, I would imagine it to belong to Charles I. Perhaps the crown jewels."

"Good Lord…!" I gasped, putting a hand to my swimming head.

"So!" Sherlock cried. "We haven't a moment to lose. We'll go to Musgrave's this afternoon and tell him to haul out his best spade." With that, he dashed noisily off to his room to find his waistcoat, coat and hat. I ran up to my own chambers to gather whatever I might need—including a weapon—and barely managed to catch up with my friend as he swept like a hurricane out of the rooms, down the stairs and out into the noisy streets of London.

SSSSSSSS

It was indeed the crown belonging to His Majesty Charles I. I was still chuckling to myself about it as we tromped up the creaking stairs to our rooms late that afternoon, our trousers and shirtsleeves covered in dirt. Sherlock himself seemed pleased—he'd smiled constantly during our muddy excursion into an ancient cellar, made a few sly remarks about feeling like a pirate unearthing treasure, and his eyes had brightened to twinkling.

Now, he trotted happily up the stairs ahead of me, and into our dimly-lit drawing room. Clouds had gathered outside, and it seemed evening would darken London, and our flat, earlier than usual.

Sherlock tossed his coat and hat down on the back of his chair and flopped into it, stretching his long legs out in front of him, toward the fire.

"Well, that was most interesting," I remarked, smiling, as I took off my own coat and hat and hung them up. Sherlock grinned at the hearth and chuckled.

"Yes, it was," he admitted. "I enjoyed it. And I know you needed the exercise."

"Pfft, _me?"_ I objected, coming in and sitting down across from him. "Says the man who didn't _move_ all morning long."

"Tosh," he waved me off. "My manner of thinking is exhausting enough."

I snorted and sat back.

"I don't doubt it."

Sherlock sighed and blinked sleepily, his gaze unfocusing as he studied the flames.

"I shall be bored again tomorrow," he lamented quietly. "Perhaps I should go out."

"To tea?" I canted my head. "At this…insignificant woman's house?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed hard and he turned to me.

"What?"

I swiped the letter off the table and held it up for him to see.

"This. This letter you dismissed this morning. You said she wanted to have you round for tea."

He looked at me, then at the letter—as if he'd never seen it before. He got up and snatched it from me, then tilted it toward the light.

"Watson," he suddenly hissed, very quietly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did tell you," I shot back as he ripped the envelope open. "You said it wasn't important—"

"You could have realized from the handwriting—"

"I _did_ ," I insisted. "You said it was nothing—"

He unfolded the paper so fast he almost tore it, his gaze flying wildly across the script.

"My God," he prayed—low and tight.

He dropped the paper. It fell like a shorn leaf. He shot to his feet, threw on his long black coat in one raking motion, forgot about his hat, and pounded out of the room.

I leaped to my feet, my heart slamming into my ribcage. Right before I dashed out of the room after him, I managed to read what was scrawled upon the paper:

 _Come at once, if convenient._

 _If inconvenient, come all the same._

 _-MH_

SSSSS

Sherlock flagged down a hansom almost instantly, and bounded inside—I had to catch the door to keep him from slamming it on me, and the whole carriage rocked violently. Sherlock leaned out his window and barked out an address in Camden Town. The driver lashed the horses, and we took off—faster than the usual pace. Sherlock turned a snarling look on me.

"What are you doing?"

" _What_ is going on?" I demanded, trying to catch my breath. "What did that message mean, and why are we going to Camden Town?"

"I have no idea why _we_ are going to Camden Town," he retorted, staring out in front of him. "This is my business."

"Yes, well, _your_ business often ends being _my_ business, so I thought I'd save time," I countered, straightening my crooked hat. "Who is she?"

Sherlock ground his teeth, and he sucked in a breath through his nose.

"Miss Molly Hooper," he answered tightly. "Her late father was a surgeon at St. Bartholemew's Hospital."

"And you consult her on cases?" I pressed.

"Occasionally. When I need particular access to the hospital," he replied.

"And she lives in Camden Town?"

Sherlock didn't answer—he folded his arms across his chest and lowered his head, glaring out front, unseeing. I bit my cheek and fell silent, hoping I would have more answers very soon.

The hansom trundled through the noisy streets, and many sights and smells assaulted us from both sides, but Sherlock didn't notice any of them, or make a single remark. His arms tightened further and further around his chest, and his jaw clenched. I watched him, shifting uneasily in my seat, unable to make my heartbeat slow down.

Finally, we wound through the somewhat dirty streets of Camden Town—a place that had become, in recent years, quite a mixed society. Some houses remained very fine, while others had run down, and some alleyways and turned downright treacherous. I noted with a cold feeling in my gut that the sky was darkening. I didn't relish the idea of tramping around here at night.

At long last, we drew up in front of a tall, stately white house with black shutters. Sherlock did not wait for me—he almost didn't wait for the horses to stop—before he threw open his door and lunged out. His shoes clattered on the cobbles and he tore around behind the cab and headed for the stairs. I pushed my own door open and hopped out, then hastily tossed a few coins into the driver's hands before following Sherlock up the front steps.

Sherlock had halted before the shiny black door, and stared at it in the twilight. I peered around him, and instantly saw what he had.

"The bolt is broken," I panted. "Someone's broken in."

He said nothing. He stepped forward and crashed through the door and into the house.

The entryway was quite dim—nobody had lit the lamps. And the next instant, Sherlock's feet crackled on glass.

He halted. His head came up, and his gaze found a portrait hanging shoulder-high on the wall to our left. A portrait of an older gentleman with a beard. Its glass had been shattered.

Sherlock's eyes went wide.

"Molly!" he cried. His voice rang through the house—and its strange, terrified tenor shot me through the heart.

He rushed through the entryway and bolted into the parlor. I followed him, then staggered to a stop.

The chairs and couch had been flung about, knocked over and broken. Books lay strewn on the floor. Papers heaped in the fireplace. Pictures hung askew. Sherlock stormed amongst it all without paying any heed to what he kicked or smashed. His attention swung through the room, his breathing labored.

"What's happened here?" I gasped. Sherlock ignored me.

He turned around and shoved past me, and I, my head spinning, hurried after him. He clattered into the white-walled dining room, and we found it in a similar state. The long, dark-wood table had been tipped, the chairs upended. Silverware had splattered across the red rug—the pieces jangled as Sherlock kicked through them and stormed the kitchen.

"Molly!" he called, but as soon as he had entered the kitchen he whirled and came right out again—it was empty.

"Holmes—" I tried, but his wild eyes couldn't see me. He broke into a run, nearly knocking me over, and barreled into the sitting room again. I followed on his heels, feeling for my revolver. He dashed through the far door, and up a flight of stairs. Together, making a racket to wake the dead, we charged up and up until we hit a landing and burst into an upstairs library.

The evening light filled the room, enough for us to see that this space had been torn apart just as badly. Books everywhere, like leaf piles, and armchairs lying on their sides. One couch by the tall window had been flipped onto its back.

Sherlock skidded to a stop, slipping on the pages of Tennyson…

Then he leaped forward and dove behind the couch.

I landed on my knees on the rug right beside him.

And froze.

A young woman lay there on her side, her back to us. She wore a faded maroon dress and worn-out shoes. Light brown hair had been mussed loose of its pinnings, and covered her face.

She was very still.

Sherlock knelt by her feet, his hands coming up in sudden helplessness as he stared at her.

"Is she alive?" I demanded.

Sherlock stopped breathing

"Sherlock, is she alive?" I pressed, trying to scoot closer.

Sherlock's eyes unfocused again—almost as if my words were sinking through him like poison.

Then, he slid himself between her and the wall, shakily pushing her hair out of her face, bending low and close, his eyes racing over her features.

She was fairly pretty, with dark eyelashes—but deathly pale. And bright blood stood out on her forehead and mouth.

"Molly," Sherlock whispered, as if it hurt him. "Molly, Molly…" He pressed his long fingers to her throat.

"Well?" I almost shouted.

He closed his eyes and heaved a short, painful sigh, and gulped.

"Yes," he croaked. "Yes, she's alive."

I heaved a sigh of my own and sat down on the floor. Sherlock lay down even further, propping himself up on his left elbow, tilting his head so he could see only her, his brow knitting. He stroked her hair out of the way, pressing his hand to her face, her throat, as if trying to warm her.

"Molly," he said urgently. "Molly, can you hear me? Molly, it's me."

I watched him, stunned to my core—and feeling like I was suddenly observing a stranger.

"Watson," he said, not taking his eyes from her for a second. "There are some smelling salts on the mantelpiece, in an ebony box."

"Right, right," I puffed, getting up and clambering through the mess toward the mantel. Remarkably, the box had remained on the mantel and intact, so I fished the smelling salts out of it and returned, handing them to him. He hardly glanced at me as he pulled one loose of my grip and held it by her face.

"Come, come, Molly," he murmured. "Molly…"

She frowned. Squirmed, then turned her head. Sherlock dropped the smelling salts and his eyes widened again.

"Molly?"

She blinked her brown eyes open—and started breathing rapidly.

Her shivering left hand lashed out—

Sherlock caught it, and pulled it to him.

"Molly, it's me," he told her. She blinked several times, trembling all over, and finally focused on him.

"Mr. Holmes," she whispered.

"Yes, I'm here. You're safe," he assured her.

"What…" She kept frowning, her voice hoarse. "Why didn't you come…when I asked?"

Sherlock gazed at her—and his expression broke.

He smiled weakly, but to no avail.

Finally, he drew in a tight breath.

"I'm taking you with me," he said.

My mouth fell open, but no words came out.

"Do you think you can stand?" Sherlock asked her.

"I…" She attempted to push off with her arms, but only got so far as her elbow before she shook her head. "Mmm. No."

Sherlock climbed up on his knees, then slid his arms underneath her. He effortlessly scooped her up, and she winced as he settled her against him. I stood up with him.

"My head hurts…so badly," Molly breathed, closing her eyes and leaning her face into his coat.

I ground my teeth, rage burning through me.

"How did this happen?" I gritted. "Who did this?"

Sherlock looked at me. And the pain that filled his eyes stung me like a slap.

"I did," he breathed.

And, pulling her close, he headed for the door, and started down the stairs. Feeling sick, I snatched up the smelling salts—wagering we might need them later if she had a more severe head injury—and wordlessly followed them out into the night.

 _To be continued…_

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	2. Chapter 2

_I've been reading a book called "How To Be A Victorian" by Ruth Goodman, and if you love the Victorian era, you should definitely give it a read! I'm very much enjoying it, and learning so much!_

 _Thank you for the lovely response to this story! I hope you continue to enjoy!_

CHAPTER TWO

"Oh, my goodness—oh, my goodness," Mrs. Hudson bustled around the room lighting lamps, her black skirts rustling. Soon, light bloomed in my chambers; enough to see by. I pushed the door further out of the way and allowed Sherlock to sweep past me, carrying Molly. He knelt down and set her on the cream-colored quilt on the bed, and Mrs. Hudson immediately swooped in and sat down next to her, wrapping an arm around her waist to support her. Molly put a hand to her head, and Sherlock got out of the way so quickly that he almost stumbled.

"All right," I huffed, taking off my hat and coat and hanging them up on the hooks on the wall. "If you'll beg my pardon, Miss Hooper, I'll have a look at you now. I'm—"

"Doctor Watson," she finished, squeezing one eye shut but looking up at me with the other. She smiled wryly. "I've heard all about you."

"Oh!" I said in surprise, glancing over at my friend. Sherlock's mouth tightened and he looked away. "Well, wonderful. Good." I stepped closer to her. "Now, I'm afraid, due to the nature of what has just

happened to you, I am going to need to be rather invasive. I will ask Mrs. Hudson to stay, but I will need you to unfasten your dress so I can see your shoulders and arms. I will also need to unpin your hair further so that I can examine your head for injuries."

Molly closed her eyes and nodded.

"I understand."

"Holmes, if you don't mind?" I turned to him and nodded toward the door.

That strange, panicked pain crossed his eyes again, and he straightened uncomfortably. Hesitantly, he backed toward the door.

"Erm, yes, I ought to—"

"I don't mind," Molly said quietly, closing her eyes and keeping her hand where it was. Sherlock blinked, and I faced her.

"Really, Miss Hooper," I objected. "He needn't—"

"He is a detective," Molly sighed tightly. "He might discover something."

My mouth tightened, for now _I_ was uncomfortable with this—and I exchanged an uncertain glance with Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson, could you please unfasten my dress?" Molly asked. "I'm too dizzy to manage it."

I heard Sherlock shift his weight—the boards squeaked—and he cleared his throat. Mrs. Hudson looked at me again, wincing, and I could only shrug. So she reached behind Molly and began unbuttoning the back of her blood-splattered, torn maroon dress. Molly just leaned forward, eyes still closed, while Mrs. Hudson made quick work of it. Finally, Mrs. Hudson spread open the back of the dress…

"Oh, dearest…!" she cried softly, and shook her head.

"Help the sleeves off of her, please, Mrs. Hudson," I urged. Her mouth tightened to a line, her eyebrows drawing together, but she carefully helped tug the sleeves off of Molly's arms, and then pushed the top portion of the dress down around Molly's hips. Now, Molly just sat there in a short-sleeved ivory chemise and her pink corset, her white shoulders and arms exposed in the lamplight from my bedside table.

And finally, we could see a myriad of ugly, dark bruises all around her neck, upper chest, and the lengths of both arms. I imagined that Mrs. Hudson had discovered similar markings all over her back.

Five curses leaped into my mouth. But I bit them back, for the sake of the ladies, and just ground my teeth and clenched my fists.

Sherlock let out a long, low breath.

I grabbed a wooden chair from my desk and pulled it over, and sat down in front of Molly. Swiftly and firmly—as I have, of course, performed hundreds of examinations on female patients—I lifted one arm and then the other, turning each over, examining the depth and age of the bruises, feeling for soundness in the bones, soreness in the joints. Occasionally she grimaced, and I could feel tension in her shoulders—as if she wished desperately to pull back from me but was forcing herself not to.

I asked Mrs. Hudson to unpin the rest of her light brown hair, which she did, and then I tilted Molly's head this way and that, examining the source of the blood that had run down her forehead.

"You have a superficial cut on your head, right there," I concluded, pointing to one just above her hairline. "And head wounds always bleed profusely, making them look far worse than they are. I've found no broken bones, but it seems you fell on your right wrist—there is some minor spraining, there." I worked that wrist gently back and forth and she hissed through her teeth.

"Yes, we should find some ice to put on it, and a bandage," I advised. Finally, I twisted in my chair to see Sherlock, who stood in the far corner of the room, arms folded.

"Well, what have you deduced?" I asked. His eyebrows raised slightly.

"Nothing," he said.

"Nothing?" I repeated incredulously.

"No, I've been fifteen feet away in the dark."

"Well, then, come closer. You might as well be of use if you've been standing there the whole time." I beckoned to him.

He hesitated again, then stepped forward, pulling off his greatcoat as he did. Silently, he draped it over the back of my chair. I got up and moved out of his way. Sherlock slipped into in the chair in front of Molly, leaned forward a little, and laced his fingers together in his lap.

Molly swallowed, and stared down at her crumpled dress, her mussed hair hanging all around her face. Her cheeks colored, and her breathing labored slightly.

For several minutes, no one moved, not even Mrs. Hudson. I said nothing—I knew better than to interrupt my friend's thoughts.

Then, Sherlock reached out with his long right hand, slid it underneath Molly's left, and lifted it.

The tension instantly melted from her shoulders. She let out a breath I had no idea she'd been holding.

With the precision of a surgeon, but with far more gentleness than even I had used, Sherlock raised her arm with his left hand and slid his right-hand fingers up and down her skin, pressing softly against each bruise, his forehead creasing with a deep, concentrated frown, his eyes studying every surface upon which his hand traveled.

And as I watched this doubtlessly painful exercise...

My attention found their hands.

And I watched Molly's fingers curl around Sherlock's stationary left hand, even as his fingers found her left collarbone and a particularly severe bruise there.

My mouth opened—but I couldn't form what I wanted to say. In fact, I hadn't the faintest notion _what_ to say.

So I closed my mouth. Perhaps if I could think on it a bit longer, in the quiet of an armchair, I would come to a conclusion that made sense. Because at the moment, _nothing_ made sense.

Finally, Sherlock let go of her hand, and set his fingers under her chin.

"Look at me," he ordered quietly.

She did. Both large brown eyes opened and found his. The two stared at each other.

Sherlock's concentrated frown changed. Brilliance entered his gaze—sharp at first, but then softened. Molly did nothing but return his look, unflinching.

Sherlock swallowed. Then, abruptly, he backed away and stood up, turning his back on her.

"She was attacked by a man in his mid forties," he declared, stuffing his hands in his trousers pockets. "Standing about five-foot seven. He is right-handed, medium build, average strength—not a laborer but certainly not a gentleman unaccustomed to physical work. An active man, used to lighter burdens and carrying loads up staircases. Perhaps a household servant of some kind. Also…" Sherlock took a deep breath and addressed the window. "She does not appear to have a concussion."

"Yes, I noticed that," I told him carefully, glancing back and forth between him and Molly. "Ahem," I cleared my throat again, went to my wardrobe and grabbed my brown dressing gown out of it, then handed it to Mrs. Hudson. "If you'd be so kind."

"Here you are, dear," Mrs. Hudson said kindly, wrapping the jacket around Molly's bare shoulders. "Don't want you to catch cold."

"Thank you," Molly whispered.

"Did you get a good look at the man who came to your house?" I asked, pulling the chair a bit away from her and sitting back down. Molly shook her head as she wrapped the coat closer to her.

"No. He wore a scarf and a bowler hat. All I could see were his eyes—they were blue."

"What else was he wearing?" I asked.

"Erm…" Molly shifted uncomfortably, closing her eyes for a moment. "A long, dark coat, dark trousers. Dirty shoes. Gloves that had the fingers cut out." She looked at me. "Nothing distinguishing."

"And what did he want?" I wondered. "What did he say he was looking for?"

Molly bit her lip, then shook her head once.

"Nothing," she murmured. "He didn't say anything."

Sherlock halfway turned around, frowning sharply at her.

"Nothing?" I repeated. "He didn't say a word?"

"No," she answered. "We'd had to dismiss our old butler, Albert, earlier in the week, because we can't pay his wages. Mother had gone to my Aunt Amy's house to ask about our moving in with her—she is a widow, and she's…well. She would be able to…take care of us." Molly's voice had quieted, and she risked a glance at Sherlock. I followed it. Sherlock was staring at the rug, his jaw tight. Molly looked back at me.

"So…that's why I was alone this afternoon. I was upstairs tidying my room when I heard terrible crashing sounds coming from downstairs. I hurried to look, and found my parlor entirely ruined. Someone was in my dining room—he had just tipped over the table. I stopped halfway down the staircase, but he came in and saw me. I recognized him."

"Wait, your recognized him?" I stopped her. "I thought you said you hadn't got a good look at him."

"I had seen him before," Molly said. "Earlier this morning, when I was shopping. I realized he had followed me from my visit to St. Bart's Hospital, and down several streets. So I ducked into a post office and wrote a note to Mr. Holmes, hoping he wasn't too busy to come and tell me what to do."

"That was this morning?" Mrs. Hudson cried, looking at Sherlock. "Why, that was the only letter that came! And I brought that up myself, Mr. Holmes, and you were standing in the parlour, looking at the papers on the table. You asked me to put it by the chairs, which I did! You said you would attend to it right away!"

Sherlock said nothing—only kept staring at the floor. My whole frame tightened, but I couldn't think of an excuse. A sensation of ice slid down through my gut. And it worsened when I looked up at Molly, and saw her gazing at Sherlock—with tears shining in her wide eyes.

"Miss Hooper," I said, facing her squarely again. "What happened then? After he saw you in your drawing room?"

Molly ducked her head, sniffed—and her voice became unsteady.

"He came up the stairs at me. I turned and ran away. He chased me into the library, where he began to tear the books down from the shelves. I thought I could…could get to a fire iron to defend myself. But he…" She choked, and swiped at her eyes. "He saw what I was trying to do, and grabbed my arms and threw me down. Each time I tried to get up, he threw me again, and he hit me. Then, he picked up a picture frame and swung it at my head." She squeezed her hands together in her lap. "That's all I remember."

I let out a shaking sigh. Sherlock Holmes had shut his eyes. I watched him, feeling strength drain out of my frame.

Then, all of a sudden, Sherlock turned on his heel and swept out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

SSSSS

The hearth fire was burning low when I stepped into our parlour again, heaving a sigh and stretching my sore back. Sherlock sat in his chair, gazing without seeing out in front of him. He held Molly's folded note absently against his lips.

I slowed my stride and studied him in that state, a line between his brows, half lit by the hearth and a lamp at his elbow.

I dipped my head, then started forward again, deliberately making noise with my footsteps.

He shot a fast, sideways glance at me, then lowered the paper, raising his eyebrows and turning his attention to his armrest.

"Mrs. Hudson has lent Miss Hooper some of her nightclothes," I told him, coming round and standing by my own chair. "I've cleaned her up and bandaged her wrist. She'll be staying the night in my room. Mrs. Hudson has agreed to sit up with her until she falls asleep."

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't even look at me. I shifted my weight, then moved around and sat down myself, pleased to find a tea waiting for me on the table to my right—if a little cold.

"I have appraised Lestrade of the situation," Sherlock intoned, his bass voice quiet. "He's sent word to her mother, and a policeman will be spending the night in her drawing room. Tomorrow they will be bringing a few of Molly's effects here to Baker Street."

I took up my teacup and saucer, my brow furrowing.

"You mean for her to stay here?"

"I've asked Lestrade to inform Mrs. Hooper that her daughter remains at 221B under the watchful eye of our landlady, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "And that her person and sensibilities are sacred in the utmost."

He said no more. Just ran his thumb steadily back and forth across the note in his hand. I swallowed a sip of tea, set it down, then leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees.

"Who is she, Holmes?" I asked quietly. His right eyebrow twitched. I waited.

Finally, he took a shallow breath.

"I met her five years ago at a benefit ball for St. Bartholomew's Hospital," he murmured. "Scotland Yard often consulted her father—he was the finest surgeon I've ever encountered, and he assisted me on more than one case. Dr. Hooper induced me to dance with her, which initially annoyed me, but the conversation that ensued was surprisingly..." Sherlock paused, as if carefully forming his words before speaking them. "Unfeminine."

"Meaning?" I pressed.

"She was bright, reserved, observant, and almost painfully humble," Sherlock said. "Not at all the frivolous, empty-headed gossip that almost all members of her sex tend to be. And it was clear that her father had imparted a great deal of his scientific aptitude to her." Sherlock took another deep breath. "When her father died, I attended the wake, and saw her again. We discussed him at length, and when she inquired after my business, I informed her that I was dealing with a missing-person case that had me…perplexed." His mouth tightened for an instant before he went on. "She pressed me for specifics concerning the case, which I reluctantly provided. Then, she took me to her father's library, and withdrew a study of handwriting that I found to be both fascinating and…helpful. When I asked her how long her father had been composing this study, she informed me that this was not her father's work, but her own."

My eyebrows slowly raised.

"Impressive," I noted. Sherlock's jaw tensed, and he kept his gaze downcast. I smiled to myself.

"After that, whenever I encountered a problem concerning the handwritten word," Sherlock went on. "I would go to Camden Town and consult her. Secretly. She is an expert on everything concerning the pen, from psychological diagnosis derived from handwriting analysis, to types of inks, nibs, paper and feathers. In addition, has an incredible understanding of poisons and toxins. She asked me to keep our business to ourselves—she feared that the other ladies in her circle would name her as a morbid eccentric if they discovered her interests." Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head, then gazed into the fire. "England lost a fine detective when Molly Hooper was born a woman."

"But it gained a fine lady," I reminded him.

A cloud passed over his face—something that almost looked like sorrow.

"Yes," he murmured.

I let that hang in the air for a moment, then canted my head.

"And…what else?"

He blinked and frowned at me.

"What else?"

"Yes, what else?" I asked. "Is there not…more to it than that?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously—and I tried not to swallow. I broke his gaze and picked up my tea.

"You just seemed….quite distressed," I remarked. "I thought perhaps—" I risked another look at him…

And saw a tinge of fear around the edges of that fiery look. I opened my mouth again—

Mrs. Hudson's heels clicked on the stairs, and I stopped, and took a sip instead. Mrs. Hudson entered, and Sherlock turned his head away.

"She's resting now, poor dear," she sighed, wrapping her own arms around herself. "I can't believe how much she's suffered today. Oh! I cannot bear to think of it!"

Sherlock adjusted his seat and cleared his throat. I tried to smile at Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, I would wager she'll be recovered within the week. She's young, and she seems healthy and strong."

Mrs. Hudson was already shaking her head, and she wasn't paying attention to me.

"To have one's house broken into, as a lady living alone—so terrifying! And then to have him destroy the furniture—and then charge up the _stairs!"_ She put a fluttering hand to her heart. "If it were me, I would think I was going to be murdered!"

I shot a frightened look at Sherlock, waiting for him to lash out at her—

But he didn't.

He had set his elbow on the rest, closed his fist and pressed it to his mouth, his eyes alight.

"Mrs. Hudson," I warned. But she ignored me and advanced on Sherlock.

"I cannot believe you ignored that poor girl's message this morning!" she berated him. "Especially when she needed you so!"

Sherlock's eyes flickered. But he said nothing to defend himself.

He said nothing at all.

I felt hollow.

Mrs. Hudson, taking out a handkerchief, dabbed at her cheeks, turned and hurriedly left the room. I watched her go, feeling an ache travel around behind my ribs. I turned halfway back to my friend to see that the look in his gaze had changed to something quiet, and earnest.

"I had no idea she could not pay her butler," he whispered.

 _To be continued…_

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	3. Chapter 3

_Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more! 3_

CHAPTER THREE

I bundled out of the hansom and straightened my coat, glancing up and across the façade of Molly Hooper's white house in Camden Town. I distractedly handed the cabbie his fare, then stood for a moment on the sidewalk, frowning at the damage to the door that now looked so obvious in the morning light.

Sherlock had awakened me that morning with his pacing—I had spent the night on the couch in the drawing room. Almost before my eyes had opened, he told me that he had sent a letter to Reginald Musgrave on a hunch, asking if he had noticed anything unusual had happened yesterday afternoon or evening. In his experience, he had said, events that seemed disconnected on the outset often ended up being inexorably intertwined. I agreed that was usually so, roused myself, and asked Mrs. Hudson to intrude upon Molly for just a moment to gather my effects so I could dress and shave. I had gotten dressed in Sherlock's room, and then come back into the parlour to suddenly observe that Sherlock was wearing the same clothes he had the night before.

"You didn't sleep at all, did you?" I had admonished.

"No," he had grunted, noisily picking up the newspaper.

"Holmes, go change clothes," I commanded. "And eat something."

"No," he had answered. I ground my teeth and stepped closer to him, keeping my voice low but severe.

"Listen, Holmes—we have a lady as a guest, and it is our responsibility to be polite and presentable," I hissed. "Now, you are still wearing your muddy clothes from yesterday, you have not shaved nor combed your hair, and you look white as death."

Sherlock gave me a sharp, offended look, but I did not heed it. I did step closer, though, to avoid raising my voice.

"I know you will want to wait here for a reply from Musgrave. So I will go to Miss Hooper's house myself and pick up her effects. When I return, I expect you to look as if you are fully-rested and collected—and once Miss Hooper has dressed, we will scrounge out something for a breakfast ourselves, since Cook is gone this week."

Sherlock gave me a withering glare. I did not back away, but my voice remained nearly inaudible.

"Look—Miss Hooper is frightened, and in a strange place, amongst gentlemen who are not her relations. She has been through a terrible ordeal, and she expects us to put it right. We must put up a good front, mustn't we? We cannot reassure her that we are on the job if we look tired and disheveled." I raised my eyebrows. "Does that sound reasonable?"

Sherlock looked down at me, the fire gone out of his gaze. The skin around his eyes tightened, he glanced away, and nodded.

"You have my word," he muttered.

"Good," I nodded also, and crisply headed for my coat and hat. "I shall be back perhaps quarter to ten."

I hadn't looked back at Sherlock as I hurried down the stairs—for I had feared that my own distress would show too much on my face.

Now, I started up the stairs to the white house, my shoes tapping on stone, and I rang the bell.

Almost immediately, the door opened, and a small, pretty-faced woman with graying brown hair, large chestnut eyes, in her late forties stood there. She wore a faded black dress with a white collar and cuffs, and she gave me a strained smile.

"Good morning," she said—though her voice shook. "I'm so sorry I don't have a servant here to greet you—it's been a…Well, a rather trying week…" she said, glancing behind her, her brow knitting. I could see her hand trembling on the door handle.

"Mrs. Hooper, my name is Dr. John Watson," I said quickly, bowing and tipping my hat. "I am a colleague of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh!" she cried, surprise and relief washing over her face. She immediately smiled again, much more genuinely. "You helped rescue my Molly yesterday!"

"Somewhat yes," I allowed, swallowing a pain in my throat. "Though I do wish we had come sooner."

"Do come in, come in," she urged me, motioning as she backed past the threshold. I took my hat off and entered, and she shut the door behind me. I instantly noted that the portrait to the left had been straightened, and no glass crunched beneath our feet.

"This policeman, Constable McDonald, from Scotland Yard, has been so good as to look after me all last night and this morning," Mrs. Hooper said as we entered the white-walled, red-carpeted drawing room to find a young, black-uniformed policeman with deep smile-lines, red hair and mustache standing by the white French mantel.

"Oh, hello Mac!" I smiled at him and stuck out my hand. He beamed at me, stepped forward and shook my hand heartily.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," he said, his brown eyes bright.

"The constable has helped Mr. Holmes and me on several cases," I explained to Mrs. Hooper.

"He's helped me put the furniture to rights, as much as is possible," Mrs. Hooper said, gesturing to the room. I looked around and noted that most of it had indeed been put back into its proper place, and those pieces that had been broken had vanished.

"Not a better man for the job," I assured Mrs. Hooper. "Mac is an excellent public servant."

"Yes, he came personally recommended by Inspector Lestrade," Mrs. Hooper said.

"No surprises there," I said, clasping my hands behind my back.

"Nonsense," Mac waved it off, but I could tell he was pleased to be entrusted with this commission. "I was just about to get some coal and make up the fires—so if you'll excuse me, Dr. Watson; Mrs. Hooper."

"Not at all," I said, and watched as he briskly headed toward the back of the house, the copper nails on his heels clicking.

"To be truthful, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Hooper spoke up as she reached out to take my hat. "I'm surprised that Mr. Holmes did not come with you to investigate the scene further."

"Ah, well," I said, surrendering my hat. "He is waiting for a reply to a specific letter—he doesn't want to miss it."

"Here, do sit down," Mrs. Hooper hung up my hat and then motioned to a white settee. I seated myself, and she settled into a gold-and-red chair off to my left, adjusting her voluminous skirts as she did.

"I was simply terrorized when I came home to find policemen crawling all through my house, and my furniture all upended," she said, pressing a hand briefly to her heart. "Especially when I knew that Molly had been at home alone yesterday afternoon."

"Yes, I can imagine," I said grimly.

"How is she?" Mrs. Hooper asked, her eyes vivid with worry.

"She's doing very well," I told her. "Very well indeed. She was in fairly good spirits even so shortly after it happened, and she slept soundly all through the night, Mrs. Hudson tells me." I watched Mrs. Hooper carefully. "Do you have any idea who could have done this?"

"Not in the slightest," she confessed, sighing and pressing her fingers to her forehead. "Our social circle has become smaller and smaller of late. It is difficult for single women to do much traveling about on our own, or attend many events, with no escorts—and Molly's succession of suitors has sadly tapered off these past few years. Well, except for Mr. Holmes, of course."

I sat up straight, shock shooting through me.

"Mr. _Holmes?"_

"Oh, I shouldn't call him a suitor," Mrs. Hooper sighed again, waving her hand absently. "For if he's courting her, it's in a manner unlike any with which I am familiar. He never visits during calling hours, but instead drops in unannounced at the most inconvenient times, such as the middle of mealtime, or right before bed, or at dawn! He never brings flowers or gifts, never invites her to a dance or a concert or opera; they never even go walking. I force him to adhere to _some_ customs once in a while, by inviting him myself, strictly for tea—and he is always punctual when he decides to accept. Often, however, he doesn't."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes mentioned to me that he often comes to consult Miss Hooper concerning his cases," I added.

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Hooper rolled her eyes. "Such nonsense—such a waste of time for a young woman, if you ask me. But I'm afraid she's inherited her father's mind which, while keeping her bright and interesting, does hinder her friendships with other ladies. After all, who truly wants to hear talk of inks and poisons and psychosis during a social call?"

"Quite right," I said, ducking my head to hide a wry smile.

"Molly has insisted over and over that Mr. Holmes has made no romantic advancements whatsoever, and I am inclined to believe her—seeing as they often spend hours in my late husband's home laboratory in complete silence, not saying a word—but his presence here does discourage other young men! He is so tall and forbidding. And he is here so often."

"Yes, that would do the trick," I admitted.

"Once," Mrs. Hooper leaned toward me. "A young man who used to be our neighbor returned from university—such an affable, handsome young man—and came to call on Molly. But Mr. Holmes was here, and he and Molly were studying in the laboratory, and when I showed Mr. Thomas in, Mr. Holmes was so chillingly cold to him that Mr. Thomas was wont to leave without even having tea. And he never came to see Molly again!"

I was finding it very difficult to suppress a smile now, but I managed.

"After Mr. Holmes left, I told Molly that I would forbid him to return—because he had been so rude—but then Molly burst into tears!" Mrs. Hooper pressed her hand to her heart again. "She begged me not to bar him from the house—she said that he made her feel useful, and helpful, and without him and the cases he brought to her, her life would be drudgery and emptiness. She also said it was no use anyway—that she was past marrying age—and she might as well be occupied with something intelligent in her spinsterhood."

"Spinsterhood? Nonsense," I scoffed, trying to lighten her mood. "Miss Hooper cannot be in danger of that."

"But Dr. Watson," Mrs. Hooper whispered, eyes wide. "She is past _twenty-five."_

"I would never have guessed it," I said, gently easing past Mrs. Hooper's indiscretion—for she was distressed and frightened.

"What mother could refuse a plea like that?" she asked, her eyes filling with tears. "And I…I do confess that Mr. Holmes, especially more recently, has treated my daughter with high regard. He listens to her, he takes her advice. He…respects her." She took a deep breath. "And that is more than many women receive from any man all their lives." She dipped her head and sniffed. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, and held it out to her.

"He does care for your daughter, Mrs. Hooper, though it may not seem obvious," I told her quietly. "I have never seen him more distressed than when he thought she might be in danger."

She took the handkerchief from me, lifted her head and searched my face. I smiled at her.

"I assure you, Miss Hooper is under his full and watchful protection, and he will not rest until the man who did this is put in a place so dark and deep that he will never harm her or anyone ever again."

"You think so?" she breathed, pressing the handkerchief to her face.

"Oh, I have no doubt," I said firmly. "Sherlock Holmes is the most determined man I have ever met. And he never ceases to amaze me."

She managed a smile, and it reassured me.

"Now, Mrs. Hooper, if you would be so kind as to gather up a few of Molly's clothes and belongings, I shall take them to her now—and we all of us would be happy to receive you and Constable McDonald at 221B Baker Street this afternoon, if you are so inclined."

SSSS

I paused halfway up the stairs at 221B and took a deep breath. I frowned, halfway believing that I was imagining things, then hurried up the rest of the way and pushed open the door.

Where I stopped entirely.

Three chairs now surrounded our breakfast table, and it had been laid with a tablecloth, plates and silverware, a jug of milk, glasses; as well as butter and jam, salt and pepper. And that smell I had detected: eggs and toast and bacon.

I set Molly's case down and hung up my hat as an afterthought, then swung around, hurried back downstairs to the kitchen, curiosity burning through me…

To see my tall, lean friend in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, his coat draped over a rough-hewn chair, working busily at the stove. He had indeed changed clothes (he now wore a dark gray waistcoat and trousers, and a deep maroon tie; he had shaved, and combed his dark hair—he looked as smart as a new penny, and not at all as if he'd spent a sleepless night. The heat from the stove filled the room, and the scent and sizzle of frying bacon flooded my nose and mouth.

"What… _are_ you doing?" I demanded.

"Breakfast," he answered, not looking up. "There is toast ready in the basket there—take it up to the table, will you? There's a good man."

Baffled, but secretly pleased, I took the basket up and carried it to the table as he asked. Just then, Mrs. Hudson bundled upstairs and greeted me.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said, drawing near her and keeping my voice down. "Did you…help with all this?"

"Why no, dear," she put up her hands in surrender. "He wouldn't let me touch a thing. Though I did loan him the tablecloth. Please see that you don't spill anything on it."

"Quite so," I agreed, finding myself stifling a smile again. "Would you mind taking this case to Miss Hooper?"

"Of course, of course," she said, picked it up and carried it toward my room. "I'll help her along as well."

I went back down to the kitchen to find Sherlock still at work on the eggs, and so I volunteered to start the tea, which he allowed. We worked busily, and soon began to get quite hot, but we synchronized our timing almost perfectly so that we could bring the food out almost all at the same time.

Just as we were laying out the platters of bacon and eggs, we heard two sets of heels clattering toward us. Sherlock's eyes flashed, he hurried into his room and grabbed his coat, then put it on, buttoning it swiftly. The next moment, Mrs. Hudson and Miss Hooper entered.

"Good morning," I greeted her, running a quick eye over her appearance. She wore a light blue, simple dress with white lace at the throat and cuffs. Her hair was done up simply, in relaxed curls. The skin around her left eye looked blackened, her hand bore a bandage and brace, and she had very little color. Still, almost all of her distressing bruises were covered, and she smiled bravely at me.

"Good morning," she answered, then glanced at Sherlock. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, good morning," he replied, avoiding her gaze.

"Erm, Mrs. Hudson," I glanced past Molly. "Would you like to join us?"

"Oh, no, thank you dear," she shook her head. "I've already eaten, and I have some work to do downstairs. Thank you, though." And with a little wave at Molly, she turned and headed down the staircase.

"Ahem," I said, and started toward the nearest chair to pull it out for Molly.

Sherlock darted forward, and grabbed the back of the chair before I could make it half a step. He pulled it out, and Molly slipped down into it. He scooted her up to the table, then seated himself at her left hand. Saying nothing, I came around the table and sat down myself.

As one, we began buttering our toast, and Sherlock poured the tea. He didn't ask either Molly or myself how we took our tea—it didn't surprise me that he knew _my_ preferences, but apparently he had memorized Molly's as well. The bacon and eggs tasted quite good, and I couldn't help but marvel at my friend—though he did not say or do anything except cut up his meat with ruthless precision.

"I paid a visit to your mother this morning, Miss Hooper," I said, trying to be cheerful.

"Oh, please call me Molly," she said in a rush, then laughed a little. "Miss Hooper is what my father's spinster sister is called, and she's really rather dreary. And I…well," she shot a half look over at Sherlock. "I'm an eccentric would-be detective and psychologist who has now written a letter to a gentleman. I doubt any more scandal could do me harm."

And now I marveled at _her_. What bright, sparkling eyes she had, even after such a trial. I couldn't keep from smiling at her. She shrugged one shoulder.

"Really, I…rather like hearing my given name. Mr. Holmes uses it."

Sherlock cleared his throat and stared at his plate as he chewed. She watched him for a moment, then returned her attention to me, slightly pained.

"How was my mother?"

"A little shaken, and quite concerned for your safety," I replied honestly. "But Constable McDonald, a very reliable policeman, stayed the night in her drawing room for her protection, and I invited the two of them here this afternoon to see you."

Sherlock groaned. Molly shifted in her seat, and resolutely ignored him.

"Thank you, Doctor, that was kind of you," she said. "Did she give you any ideas about…about who it might have been?"

Sherlock was slicing his bacon so vehemently I thought he might cut through the plate. I ignored him as well.

"She said she had no idea," I answered. "So, aside from Holmes' deductions and your own observations, we really have nothing much to go on."

"Mr. Holmes?"

The call came from the stairwell—it was Mrs. Hudson, hurrying up the staircase and waving a letter. "Mr. Holmes, a reply has come from Sir Musgrave!"

Sherlock dropped his utensils with a clatter and fired out of his chair, nearly knocking it over. He leaped past Molly and snatched the letter from Mrs. Hudson so quickly she almost lost her balance.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said pointedly over the racket of Sherlock ripping open the envelope. Sherlock unfolded the letter whilst pacing furiously, read it with lightning speed, then—

"Yes, yes, yes!" he hissed. "I knew it—I _knew_ it." And he slapped the letter down on the table by my left hand.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked, coming closer.

"Read it out, Watson—you'll see what I mean," Sherlock gestured to it, then restlessly folded his arms and put a finger to his lips.

"All right, let's see…" I said, picking up the paper. "'Holmes, It is incredible, but with your usual omniscience you have bounded ahead of me—for I was just sitting down to write you a note about the latest misadventure concerning our ritual when I received your inquiry. _Yes,_ there has indeed been a strange development: my long-time butler Richard Brunton, whom I believe you met when you made your visits, has vanished without a trace. It seems as though his rooms have not been occupied for at least two days. Also, our maid, Rachel Howells, has locked herself in her chamber and refused to come out. I fear, as you doubtlessly do, that some other mischief is afoot, and I would beg you to come to Hurlstone at your earliest convenience. Perhaps you can coax some answers from Miss Howells, for insofar as we have attempted, she has remained resolutely silent to our entreaties. I remain yours, et cetera, R.M.'"

"Do you see, Watson?" Sherlock watched me keenly. I looked up at him briefly then nodded at the note.

"You said that the man who attacked Miss… _Molly_ ," I corrected myself. "Was a household servant." I eyed Sherlock. "You think it might be Mr. Brunton."

"It is certainly worth investigating," Sherlock decided.

"I agree," I said, folding up the note. "When shall we go?"

"As soon as we can make ourselves ready," Sherlock said. "I will see about commissioning a hansom to take the three of us to Hurlstone."

"The three of us?" Molly said, straightening.

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly, then strode off to his room. I watched him go, then leaned toward Molly.

"Do you feel up to it?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

"Yes, I think so," she shrugged a little, then forced a half smile. "He must think it's important for me to be there."

The idea sank through me, and I had to agree that it probably _was_ important—but perhaps not for the reason she assumed.

 _To be continued!_


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

After Molly had posted a quick apology to her mother, explaining the situation and inviting her to tea tomorrow rather than that afternoon, the three of us had donned our dark coats and hats and bundled into a hansom bound for Hurlstone House.

As we trundled through the bustling streets of London, Molly sitting beside me and Sherlock sitting across from me, none of us spoke. Sherlock had acquired that deadly-silent aura he put on when pondering deeply—he stared out the window, seeing nothing, his mouth a hard line. Molly, likewise, seemed to be lost in thought, though her features had taken on a more melancholy aspect; her large eyes reflecting the light without, a slight furrow to her brow. So I set to mentally reviewing the facts of the case myself, out of tried and true habit. After all, there was no better way to spend the hours during which we were forced to travel.

By early afternoon, we had left London quite a distance behind us, and had passed into the rolling, green countryside. As the sky opened up around us—albeit a cloudy sky—and the beech trees flanked the road, Molly sat up, and came back to the present moment, studying our surroundings with interest.

"Do you travel to the country very often?" I asked her.

"Never," she said quietly, watching a flock of sparrows flitter through the shrubbery. "All of our relation live in Town."

"Would you like to?" I wondered. "See more of the countryside, I mean."

She glanced at me, smiled slightly, and glanced down.

"I used to fancy having a cottage by some…sheep farm or something," she said, then tilted her head this way and that, her smile becoming a little playful. "Just to use on summer holidays." She sighed, and looked back out the window. "But I…doubt I'll everbe rich enough for that."

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sherlock watching her. But as soon as he caught me catching _him_ , he looked away.

Half an hour later, we arrived at Hurlstone. Sherlock bustled out, his shoes scraping on the gravel walk, leaving me to climb out next and help Molly down. The three of us stood before the tall entryway of a great brick manor, with many solemn, white-bordered windows, stately peaks, and narrow chimneys. A forest loomed on the grounds behind it, and tall pines flanked it. The cool, fresh air smelled of peat bog burning. I knew the place fairly well—Sherlock and I, of course, had been there twice already, attempting to solve the mystery of the family ritual. I rather wished that the case had over and done with yesterday with the finding of the crown, rather than reopening with this mess.

The front door opened before we could ascend the steps to ring the bell—and Sir Musgrave himself hurried out to meet us. The young man—same age as Sherlock—wore fine tweeds, and his dark hair had been combed, but his black eyes betrayed urgency, and his smile seemed quick as an afterthought.

"Holmes, Watson," he said, trotting up to us and offering his hand. Sherlock shook with him first, and I followed suit.

"Sir Musgrave, may I present Miss Molly Hooper," Sherlock gestured to her. Molly smiled at him, and immediately held out her hand to him. Musgrave returned the smile—more genuinely—and gently took her hand. The next moment, however, he frowned as he focused on her face.

"Good Lord," he remarked with alarm. "Someone has blackened your eye!"

"Oh! Yes," Molly let go of him and self-consciously put a gloved hand to her cheek.

"Indeed, someone has," Sherlock said stiffly, drawing himself up. "And we suspicion that it was your butler, Mr. Brunton."

"Good Lord!" Musgrave exclaimed again. "May I ask what drove you to that conclusion?"

"I prefer not to say any more until I have had a chance to question Miss Howells," Sherlock told him swiftly. "May I?"

"I do wish you would try," Musgrave answered, starting quickly back toward the house. I offered my arm to Molly, which she took, and the three of us followed.

"But as I said, we've not heard a word from her since she locked herself in her room," Musgrave went on. "I am…Well, I am quite concerned for her. I fervently hope she has not done herself a harm."

"Surely you should have broken the door in if you are afraid of that!" I cried as we stepped over the threshold into the grand, dark-wood entryway. We quickly followed Musgrave down a side hall, then headed toward a narrow servants' staircase.

"I am certainly going to resort to that, Dr. Watson, if Mr. Holmes is unsuccessful here," Musgrave told me as we trotted up the noisy, creaking stairs—I allowed Molly to proceed ahead of me.

The four of us tramped up three flights of wooden stairs, sounding like a herd of cattle, until we achieved a landing and pushed through a door to a narrow, colorless passage lined with low doors.

"Her room is at the end of this hall," Musgrave told us. "As you can imagine, Miss Hooper, I must keep quite a few servants to maintain this place. However, as far as equals in station, I'm quite alone in this vast place."

"It is a lot of room for just yourself," Molly remarked.

"Indeed it is," he said, sending her a smile over his shoulder. "Perhaps someday I shall marry, and fill it with children."

Sherlock instantly stepped around Molly to walk between her and Musgrave.

My mouth fell open. However, no one had time to make any more remarks, for with only half a dozen more steps, we had reached the end of the hall. This door was slightly taller, and recently painted. Musgrave rapped on it three times with his knuckles.

"Miss Howells, I do not wish to disturb you, but Mr. Sherlock Holmes is here to see you, as is Dr. Watson. You remember them from yesterday. They would endeavor to help you out of your distress if you will but speak to them."

No answer came from within. Musgrave worriedly glanced at Sherlock and gestured to the door, then backed away. Sherlock stepped up, and leaned toward the wood.

"Miss Howells, I truly do not wish to intrude upon your privacy," he began calmly. "But we are in desperate need of your assistance. If you can bring yourself to answer a few questions, we shall be off and no longer cause any disturbance."

Still no answer. Molly and I exchanged a glance, but Sherlock only leaned his head closer to the door.

"Miss Howells, you are acquainted with the former butler here at Hurlstone—Mr. Richard Brunton, am I correct? And you are aware that he has disappeared?" Sherlock paused a moment, then spoke into the ensuing silence. "If you have any information concerning his whereabouts, we would find it most valuable."

All quiet from the other side. Sherlock's jaw clenched—and I myself began to feel increasingly nervous.

"Miss Howells, it is vital that you answer us," Sherlock said, much more heatedly. "Vital and imperative—and if we do not hear an answer from you very shortly, we shall be forced to take extreme measures."

"Musgrave, I fear Mr. Holmes is right," I murmured tightly to him. "We might need to knock that door in—she may not be well, or even conscious."

Musgrave went even paler than before.

"May I…May I try?" Molly spoke up. Sherlock looked down at her for a moment—then nodded, and took a step back. Molly grasped her hands together in front of her, then stepped up to the door.

"Miss Howells?" she called. "My name is Molly Hooper. I'm afraid I am the reason Mr. Holmes is so in earnest. Well, not…not _me,_ per se—myself, at all—but what happened to me. Since it is so mysterious. You see," Molly cradled her hurt hand, and ducked her head. "Yesterday afternoon, an intruder came into my house and…He overturned my furniture, and broke my plates, and he…He struck me. Over and over." Molly's voice shook, but she persisted. "And all the while, he said nothing to me. Nothing at all. I had no idea what I'd done to cause it."

Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut and he turned away from her. Molly went on.

"Mr. Holmes has deduced that the man who attacked me was a man in his forties, and a servant in a great house. And since Mr. Holmes had just solved a case here at Hurlstone, and then Mr. Brunton has gone missing…" She shrugged one shoulder again. "We thought perhaps it…Well, it was worth looking into, at least. I mean…I…I would like to know. Myself. I'd like to know the reason."

Molly fell quiet. I listened with all my might. Musgrave shifted—a board creaked beneath his feet.

Sherlock turned around—eyed the doorknob with violent intent—

A lock _clacked_.

We all jumped.

The doorknob turned. The door itself pulled open.

And in the gap stood a young woman with pale blonde hair—mussed from its bun. She wore a gray dress, had large blue eyes and a fairly pretty face—a face that was marred by dark bruises.

"Rachel!" Musgrave cried, his eyes going wide. He pushed past Sherlock and Molly and took the young woman by the shoulders. "Rachel, what has happened to you? Who has done this to you?"

Poor Rachel glanced past him and met Molly's eyes. The next moment, her face twisted, she burst into violent weeping and collapsed into Musgrave's arms.

SSSSSS

Minutes later, we all sat in Musgrave's lavish, ancient drawing room by a roaring fire. Musgrave had picked Rachel up in his arms and carried her all the way down, and seated her in his own broad armchair by the hearth. The next second, he had ordered the cook to bring in chamomile tea and brandy, and then to prepare some more substantial food, since Rachel had not eaten in two days.

Sherlock sat still for only a moment, then got to his feet and began pacing in the background. But Molly perched placidly on the edge of a chair, studying Rachel and Musgrave—and I sensed that Sherlock was taking his social cues from her, and restraining himself as a result.

"Doctor, would you take a look at her, please?" Musgrave urged me. I got up from my chair—I had been waiting for this invitation—and approached Rachel.

"If I may, Miss Howells?"

Languid tears still rolling down her cheeks, she nodded. I knelt in front of her, reached up and tilted her head back and forth, examining her bruises. I also rolled up her cuffs and found bruises around her wrists. Sherlock edged closer as I was doing this, and I felt his gaze travel across all the same places.

"Remarkably similar," I muttered.

"Identical," Sherlock corrected, looming over my shoulder. I looked up into Rachel's watery eyes.

"Miss Howells," I said quietly. "Do you know who it was who did this to you?"

She nodded.

"It was Richard," she whispered. "Richard Brunton, the man you are looking for."

"Why did he do it?" Musgrave asked, drawing near and kneeling on the floor next to her right hand. I gently withdrew, took a chair and slid it nearer. Sherlock remained beside Rachel's left hand, and Molly to my own left.

"Did he give a reason?" I pressed Rachel. She nodded.

"He did." She drew in a deep, shaking breath, and her brow twisted. Musgrave immediately reached up and took her hand, and squeezed it.

"It's all right," he soothed. "You are safe now, and we are all determined to help you. Please tell us, Rachel."

She swallowed hard, braced herself, and spoke.

"Richard courted me for several months, and we became engaged. But then, for some reason, Janet Tregillis caught his eye—and he left me behind. He began buying her presents, sometimes very expensive ones. It seemed to me he was spending more money than he had. Then, not long ago, he came upon your ritual, Sir Musgrave," she looked at him. "And Richard came to me, and told me that it had to do with a treasure, and he meant to have it—he said the family had never needed it—but now he would have no chance to find it because you, sir, had dismissed him."

Musgrave's mouth tightened.

"Yes, I had."

"I asked him why he had come to me," Rachel went on. "He said I was a clever girl, and I could have half of whatever it was we found—but we had to find it before the detectives did. But I knew it was because he wanted to buy Janet more presents, and probably had run himself out of money. And so I refused. He was very angry, but he left. Then, on the day that you, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, returned and found the treasure ahead of him, Richard came to find _me_. He said I had ruined him. He said he had needed that money to pay off gambling debts in London to the Carroway brothers, and now they would find him and shoot him. I told him I didn't care if they did. Then he…" Her throat choked. Musgrave's grip on her tightened, his face tensed, and his gaze sharpened.

"That was when he struck you," Musgrave realized. She nodded.

"And he broke into my money box," she swallowed. "And stole everything I had. He left, and shut the door behind him."

"That blackguard," Musgrave snarled, slapping his leg. "He's worried about being shot—I'll shoot him myself!"

"You may not need to, if the Carroway brothers are on his tail," Sherlock noted coldly. "They are a particularly ruthless pair of illicit businessmen who are the warp and woof of the British underground. They host illegal boxing matches, card games, and various other activities I shall not mention with ladies present."

"Perhaps he took Miss Howell's money to pay off his debt," I guessed.

"No, if he is truly worried, the salary of a house maid wouldn't even begin to cover it," Sherlock shook his head. "I have no doubt he merely took the money to travel back and make due in London."

"But why would he go straight into the lion's mouth?" Musgrave asked. "The Carroway brothers _are_ there, are they not?"

"They are," Sherlock agreed. "But Brunton is intelligent—and he knows them well enough that if he attempts to run, his life is forfeit. The Carroways' web is wide, and their fingers reach even to the continent."

"What does he plan to do, then?" Molly asked. Sherlock's darkened eyes found her for a moment, then he drew in a breath and faced Musgrave again.

"The only thing he _can_ do," Sherlock said. "He must gamble again."

"Surely not," I scoffed.

"He has no choice," Sherlock shook his head. "He must gamble and win enough money to pay them, or gamble against _them_ —and win."

"So what do you propose?" Musgrave asked.

"I propose that you look after Miss Howells," Sherlock advised. "The three of us will return to London, and I will consult what informants I have concerning the Carroway brothers."

I got to my feet—so did Molly, and Musgrave.

"You needn't bother showing us out," Sherlock said to Musgrave. "Attend to her, if you would. And let us know if you find any clues as to Brunton's whereabouts."

"I shall. Thank you, Holmes," Musgrave shook his hand. I shook Musgrave's hand as well.

Then, Rachel made an urgent noise, and held her hand out—to Molly.

Molly quickly stepped up and took it. Rachel squeezed her fingers, and gazed earnestly up at her.

"Miss Hooper," she whispered. "Thank you. You…You gave me courage today."

Touched, I glanced at Sherlock—who watched Molly with a reserved, soft gaze, his eyebrows drawn together.

Molly managed a smile for Rachel.

"You did the same for me," Molly assured her. "And don't be afraid—Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson will find him. And he won't hurt either of us again."

Rachel nodded, her blue eyes shining, then reluctantly released her. Together, the three of us left Hurlstone, Sherlock falling once more into his dark and impenetrable silence.

 _To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry for the slight delay! I'm trying to write two things at once, here. I have a Loki story going on over on , and then this one! Hope you're still enjoying._

CHAPTER FIVE

"Holmes, do sit down," I urged. "You've already worn a hole through the rug in two places—no need to damage the floorboards."

Sherlock turned on his heel and charged back the other way, puffing on his pipe, the smoke trailing behind him like a banner. He ignored me. I glanced at Molly. She returned my glance over the edge of her white teacup, from which she sipped. She sat, nearly still, in Sherlock's armchair across from me, watching him just as I had been for the past hour. I turned my attention from her to the clock on the mantel.

Sherlock had contacted his network of street-folk as soon as we had returned to London, and now we waited. It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, and no word yet. I had been passing the time by taking notes, and Molly had endeavored to busy herself with a book, and then with tea. But waiting is almost always intolerable, no matter the available diversions.

Finally, Molly quietly cleared her throat, then set her tea and saucer down on the side table.

"I think I would like to go for a walk," she stated, rising to her feet and smoothing her skirt. "I feel stuffy, after sitting so long in that carriage. And it looks like a lovely day."

Sherlock turned again, and frowned at her. However, she simply strode across the room toward the door, and made her way to my chambers. Sherlock flashed an alarmed look at me and took his pipe out of his mouth.

"Aren't you going with her, Watson?"

"Me?" I answered, looking up from my notebook. "Why don't you? You could use the exercise."

Sherlock snorted.

"Nonsense—I can't go anywhere. I have to wait for word of Brunton."

"I can easily do that," I answered. "I'm occupied with my notes at the moment, and I'm comfortable here. You've nothing to do but pace."

Sherlock snorted again, clamped his pipe between his teeth and turned around. I sighed, shrugged, and returned to my notes.

"Or…I'm sure she wouldn't mind walking alone. The streets are crowded enough this time of day, and she's doubtlessly used to it. It's probably what she intends after all."

Sherlock pulled out his pipe again and turned on me.

"Watson, that is entirely impossible," he hissed, his eyes vivid. "You cannot be unaware of the danger that has followed her everywhere these past two days, or all manner of the misfortunes which could befall her should she take a wrong turning, even in this quarter of Town."

I simply raised my eyebrows at him and gestured pointedly to the door. He ground his teeth.

"Look, you needn't go far," I assured him in a whisper, leaning forward. "Just up and down a few streets, and then you ought to take her somewhere for an early dinner. I doubt she has been out in civilized society, and waited upon, for quite some time now. She might find it a welcome distraction from her injuries."

Sherlock all of a sudden seemed unbalanced. But he had no time to conjure a retort, for Molly emerged again, wearing her coat and hat, and nodded to the two of us.

"I won't be gone long," she assured us, managing a smile—and turned and started down the stairs.

Sherlock looked at me in alarm, then darted over, slapped his pipe down on the mantel, raced into his room, and emerged whilst still throwing on his coat and hat. The next moment, he had clambered down the stairs and called to her to wait for him.

Chuckling to myself, I settled back in my chair and read over my notes again.

SSSSSSS

The clock chimed eight. I rubbed my stiff neck, then regarded the windows. It had gotten dark quite some time ago, and Sherlock and Molly had still not returned. They must have taken my advice to go to dinner.

I arose, stretched my cramped back, and poked the fire with an iron, watching the bright sparks spit.

Just then, footsteps sounded in the stairwell. Quick, light ones—and solitary.

Not Holmes, then. And not Molly.

I put the iron back on its hanger and turned to face the newcomer, clasping my hands behind my back.

The next instant, a keen-faced boy perhaps thirteen years old, dressed in drab browns and blues, wearing a faded cap over his unkempt black hair, stepped into the parlor. He stood up straight and clasped his own hands—wearing half-gloves—behind his back, mirroring me, and his bright obsidian eyes found mine.

"Doctor Watson," he said.

"Hello, Mr. Wiggins," I greeted him, smiling. "News?"

"Yes, sir," he nodded quickly. "I've found out something about the Carroway Brothers."

"Indeed?" I stepped forward eagerly. "Please tell me."

"It seems they'll be holding a singular boxing match day after tomorrow, sir," Wiggins told me, his eyes intent. "Of the most illegal sort. High stakes, sir, and the only such match to be held within his coming fortnight."

"Indeed," I said again. "And have you discovered who the Carroways' fighter will be?"

Wiggins' eyes sparkled.

"I have, sir. His name is Charlie Hatfield, and I have his address for you here." He held out a folded piece of paper to me. I took it.

"Thank you, Wiggins. We are much obliged to you," I said. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, sir. The man who is to fight him is named Jim O'Connel, known as the Scotch Killer."

I frowned.

"Why such a name?"

"He's killed three men in the ring over the course of his career, sir."

"Interesting," I mused.

"And in this particular fight, the Scotch Killer is being backed by a Mr. Richard Brunton."

My head came up, and I stared at him. Wiggins smiled in quiet triumph.

"Excellent," I said softly. "Anything more?"

"No, sir," Wiggins shook his head, then grinned. "But I shall keep my ear to the ground."

"Good lad," I returned his smile. "Go down to the kitchen—Mrs. Hudson will make you a plate of food."

"Thankee, sir," Wiggins tipped his hat at me, then turned and swept down the stairs.

SSSS

Ten o'clock the next morning found the three of us bundled into a hansom once more, bound for one of the most unsavory districts of London. I had protested loudly to Sherlock against Molly coming along on this jaunt, but my words had fallen upon deaf ears, and so the lady remained with us.

Clouds hung low over London, mingling with the coal dust, as we clattered through the crowded streets. I had brought a weapon with me, and I knew Sherlock had done the same. How I wished I had had the chance to buy a derringer for Molly, and taught her how to use it.

As we trundled through the byways, Sherlock stared out the window, light reflecting in his distant grey eyes, his brow furrowed. Molly's brown eyes studied him, then turned to me.

"We're headed to Shoreditch, then?" she asked.

"Yes," I sighed, attempting to relax my shoulders.

"Have you ever been there before?"

"Very few times," I admitted. "And I can't say I enjoyed myself."

"I imagine not," Molly smiled crookedly. "It's an excellent place to go to get yourself murdered."

"Quite so," I said tightly, but Molly's smile grew faintly mischievous, and my worry faded.

"Well," I sat up straight and slapping my hands to my knees. "We _are_ traveling there in the daylight. At least that's something."

Sherlock snorted slightly, but otherwise did not comment.

After some time, the buildings to either side of us took on a grim aspect—dark bricks and hollow windows. I could practically sense the driver's nervousness, and so I leaned toward Sherlock.

"Holmes, what say we get out here? It wouldn't do to put our driver and horse in peril."

"Quite," Sherlock said shortly, then reached out his window and slapped the roof. The hansom slowed to a halt.

I hopped out, then helped Molly out after me, and Sherlock turned to the driver as soon as he stepped up on the curb.

"Thank you for taking us this far," Sherlock reached up with payment.

"Thank you, sir," the driver answered, pale around the lips, and took the money. We stood upon the paving and watched him trundle away, the wheels and horseshoes clattering.

Immediately, I wrinkled my nose as I glanced around.

"Lovely smell."

"Yes, lovely," Sherlock muttered. "Shall we?" He offered his arm to Molly. She glanced up at him, smiled a little, then took it. Together, we wound our way up the narrowing street, stepping around piles of rubbish, listening to unsettling sounds echo from within the buildings to either side of us. Molly pressed tight against Sherlock's side, but I saw he did not withdraw. In fact, his posture tilted slightly toward her, his shoulders taut as he cast his gaze this way and that, ever watchful. I myself had to fight to unclench my jaw and steady my breathing. It unnerved me to no end to have a lady to look after in this quarter, as well as ourselves…

Finally, Sherlock drew Molly to a halt in front of a low door at the corner of a building, and rapped on it briskly three times with his gloved hand.

The clattering of bottles issued from within. We waited, and I held my breath. Finally, the door creaked open…

And a towering man bent down and peered through the opening at us. He had rough corduroy trousers on, dirty boots, and a dirty shirt—no waistcoat or coat. His head had been shaved, his nose crumpled, showing that he had been hit violently and often in the face; and he had small, piercing brown eyes. His huge shoulders and arms swelled against the too-small fabric of his shirt. He frowned at us, his bulldog features wrinkling, and studied all our faces.

"Who are you lot?" he demanded.

"Good morning, Mr. Hatfield. My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock answered crisply, straightening up. "And these are my associates, Miss Molly Hooper and Dr. John Watson. We've come to inquire about the illegal boxing match in which you will be fighting tomorrow evening."

Hatfield's eyes flashed.

"Aaow, I ain't got no idea what you're talkin' about," he muttered, and moved to shut the door.

"Surely you remember," Sherlock inserted calmly. "It isn't every day that a professional boxer is convinced to throw a match."

The door stopped. The man stared at Sherlock.

I swallowed.

"'ow do you know about that?" the man whispered, going pale.

Sherlock reached up and took off his hat.

"Perhaps if we might come in, we could discuss it. I may be in a position to help you."

Hatfield hesitated, his glance flickering to Molly.

"It ain't no fit place for a lady…"

"Oh, don't worry about anything," Molly smiled at him. "I don't need anything special."

Hatfield cleared his throat, then pulled the door open all the way and stepped aside. Sherlock and Molly ducked in, and I followed closely, my hand near my gun.

The small space reeked of strong liquor, and haze filled the air—the chimney wasn't pulling properly. The low fire in the crude stove burnt low. Battered furniture sat around it, and bottles lined the low tables. I tried not to cough.

"'ave a seat," Hatfield invited them, gesturing to one of the chairs as he sat down himself. His own chair squeaked beneath his massive, muscular weight.

"Oh, no thank you, we shan't be staying long," Sherlock answered lightly, keeping hold of Molly. "I just have a few brief questions to ask you."

"Aye?" Hatfield reached for a half-empty bottle, and I noticed that the man's dirty forehead was sweating.

"Who approached you about losing the match on purpose?" Sherlock asked, watching Hatfield like an eagle on a perch. Hatfield took a swig, eyeing Sherlock right back.

"Why should I tell you anyfing?"

"Because, if I am correct, that very man is currently my suspect in a series of recent crimes, and I have a great personal interest in having him arrested," Sherlock replied. "If you can assist me, we shall see him behind bars sooner rather than later, and he shall be unable to cause you or me any more mischief." Sherlock stopped, and raised his eyebrows. "So, may I ask his name?"

Hatfield sighed, setting his elbows on his knees and letting the bottle hang loosely from his fingers.

"Aye," he rubbed his face. "'is name's Richard Brunton."

Molly and I exchanged a look. Sherlock didn't shift his gaze from Hatfield.

"And how did he persuade you to do this?" Sherlock asked. "You work for the Carroway brothers do you not?"

Hatfield's mouth tightened, but he nodded once.

"Don't you fear what would happen to you if they discovered your disloyalty?" Sherlock pressed.

"Not as much as I fear what Brunton told me 'e was goin' to do," Hatfield answered roughly. "My sister owes him money, see. And she can't pay. She's got three little 'uns and a dead 'usband. Brunton said 'e'd take all she 'as and do who-knows-what to her babies, and 'e'd turn me in to the Yard for my fightin' if I tried to stop 'im. 'e's a brute and a scoundrel. I'd 'ave gladly killed him meself, Mr. Holmes—but if I got caught, my sister wouldn't 'ave no money at all comin' in. No one to take care of 'er." His expression sagged with weariness. "I've got no choice but to throw the match an' make it look convincin'. And 'ope to God O'Connel don't kill me outta spite." He took another long swig from his bottle.

I studied the boxer for a moment, then glanced to Sherlock. His mouth had tightened and his gaze distanced—a sure sign that his mind was racing.

"Where can I find the Carroway brothers now?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Hatfield looked up at him in surprise, going even paler.

"You aren't plannin' on bringing the police into the _match_ , Mr. Holmes?"

"Not at all. At least, not at the moment," Sherlock assured him. "I simply want to talk to them about Brunton. I know that he owes _them_ a great deal of money, and that is the reason for all this trouble."

Hatfield stared up at Sherlock for a long time. Finally, he took a shallow breath.

"Corner of Vincent and Boundary Street," he said in a low voice. "Side door. Leads to the basement."

"And the password?" Sherlock asked.

I looked at him, startled, and found myself holding my breath again.

"Plummy and slam," Hatfield finally muttered. "But you didn't 'ear that from me."

"Of course not," Sherlock replied. "Oh, and before I forget—How much does your sister owe Mr. Brunton?"

"About twenty pounds," he groaned, rubbing his face again.

Sherlock switched his hat to his left hand, opened his coat, drew out his wallet and pulled out several crisp notes—about thirty pounds worth. My lips parted, and Molly stared up at him, but he didn't seem to notice.

"That will clear it for her, will it not?" he asked, holding the notes out to Hatfield. Hatfield gaped at him.

"I…No, Mr. Holmes, I can't accept no charity…"

"It is not charity," Sherlock answered back sternly. "It is strategy. If Brunton demands money of your sister, you give this to him yourself. That way both she and you shall be free of him. If he tries more usury beyond that, send word to me at 221 Baker Street and go straight to Scotland Yard. I shall be there to vouch for you upon the instant."

Hatfield, wide-eyed, shakily set his bottle down and got to his feet, wiped his hands on his trousers and took the crisp money. He lifted his gaze to Sherlock's face, vigorously wiped his right hand again on his trouser leg, then held it out.

"Thankee, Mr. Holmes," he gasped. "I'm…I'm much obliged to you."

"Not as much as I am to you," Sherlock replied, grasping the man's hand without hesitation. And as he released him, his eyebrows went up in a congenial expression. "Oh, and—take the night off tomorrow. You needn't worry at all about coming to the match. I'll take care of everything."

"Thankee," Hatfield nodded, out of breath.

"We had better be going, then," Sherlock announced, putting his hat on and turning toward the door. "Good day to you, Mr. Hatfield."

"Oh! Yes, yes, good day, Mr. Holmes," Hatfield stammered, hurrying past us to open the door for us. Together, bidding Hatfield one more goodbye, the three of us bundled out of the tenement house and into the filthy streets again.

"Do you think that money will convince Brunton to leave the sister alone?" Molly asked Sherlock quietly, studying his profile even as she took his arm again.

"That money will never touch Brunton's hands," Sherlock answered. "Brunton believes Hatfield is a loose end he's already tied off—he's no longer thinking about him, or his sister. No, my reason for giving him the money—"

"Was to prove our sincerity," I finished, drawing up to flank him. "Assure him that we are on his side."

"Precisely," Sherlock nodded.

"And what about telling him to take the night off?" Molly pressed.

"Ah, that is exactly why we must pay a visit to the corner of Vincent and Boundary," Sherlock said brightly. "It isn't far from here—an easy morning stroll."

"Oh, good lord," I groaned.

"Best keep your wits about you now, Watson," Sherlock advised. "One misstep in the near future and they might skin the two of us and auction Molly off as a prize at the boxing match."

 _To be continued…_


End file.
